You're Not That Boy
by mutantpenguins
Summary: Christopher Pike realizes just how important a role he can play in the life of Jim Kirk. No pairings  for once . Warning inside: not exactly easy material to read/cover.


Ember hates that this didn't make 1000 words, since that's normally her minimum. Oh well. She thinks it's fine the way it is.

A fill for hc_bingo. Warning: the prompt was "child abuse (emotional)". Happy times are far in the future.

* * *

"_Are we done?_" Jim demands, the look in his eyes suddenly serious.

Chris can't say anything but, "_Yeah. I'm done._" He has put forth an incredible amount of effort trying to get Jim to enlist in Starfleet. He doesn't want to waste any more time than he already has, especially since Jim seems so unmoved.

There is one thing he needs to know though. "Why don't you see that we need you? Why can't you see you're meant for more than this?"

Jim snorts. "What, me, the little fuck-up from the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa? What could I _possibly_ be meant for, _sir_?" He adds just the right amount of disdain on the last word. It's almost enough to cover for the honest self-deprecation and air of repetition in the rest of his words. Why has Jim repeated those words so much it sounds rote?

"Who told you that?" he wants to know. He wants to find out who they were and tell them just how very wrong that assumption was.

Jim seems to realize that evasion won't work, not anymore, for he says freely, "Who didn't? My mom, Uncle Frank, schoolmates, teachers, everyone. Everyone knows what I am. Why don't you?"

Chris sighs. Suddenly he is dealing with quite a few ghosts, and he wishes he could turn back time and make sure Jim never had to experience this. He wishes he could take away a mother who looked at him and saw a version of her dead husband who could never be that same man, a stepfather who had never quite known how to deal with children and so had followed the example of the mother, a neighborhood that looked on the son of the great hero George Kirk with pity as he began the downhill plunge into what his life was now, teachers who had shook their heads and labelled Jim a lost cause, everything that has led Jim to this point. If he had known Jim was like this he would have come for his friend's son a hell of a lot sooner, but he had never known Winona as well as he had George and had felt it hadn't been his place. He had figured Jim would grow up all right.

Now he is faced with how wrong he was, and he can't help the regrets.

He can't change the past, he knows that. What he can do is start the process to end a lifetime of hurt and begin something new for the man in front of him. Jim has to buy into it, though, or it'll never work. This will be the most important persuasion he has ever performed, either for his personal life or for Starfleet.

"You're not that boy, Jim," he starts. "Not anymore. You can break free of all that, of this place; you know you can. It's not like it was back then. You can prove them all wrong and make a name for yourself."

Jim doesn't quite look convinced, but he looks a bit more interested than he had before. Was this really the first time someone had told him he wasn't totally worthless?

"You don't have to keep living in your father's shadow, Jim," he continues, "but it has to start somewhere. You can't keep drifting like this; it's doing nothing more than proving everyone right. If you want to prove them wrong, show them you can be somebody, you have to believe it and you have to change something."

Knowing there is nothing more he can say, Chris keeps it simple. "_Riverside Shipyard. Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow, 0800_."

Then on a hunch he risks it all in one final gambit. "_You know, your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother's and yours. I dare you to do better._"

As he leaves he knows what Jim will decide. He has never been happier at seeing a new recruit. It has never meant this much before. Now it means a new life for someone who desperately needs one.


End file.
